


From Soft, Clear Skies to Harsh, Craggy Landscapes

by MoominQuartz (IceCreAMS)



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Corruption, Corruption scars, Dissociation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Post-Episode: s06e19 I Am My Monster, Scars, Steven Universe Future, Steven Universe Future Spoilers, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceCreAMS/pseuds/MoominQuartz
Summary: Steven takes a shower immediately after the events of "I Am My Monster" and witnesses the scars born from his corruption.Based on fanart by quartzboysteven!
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe
Comments: 16
Kudos: 207





	From Soft, Clear Skies to Harsh, Craggy Landscapes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinystarpaws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinystarpaws/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/605545) by quartzboysteven. 



> This was a commission for my friend Cody! Based on [this wonderful fanart](https://twitter.com/quartzboysteven/status/1244717266215882756?s=20) done by twitter user quartzboysteven. I made sure Steven was okay with it, too, just in case, but I did take some liberties at Cody's request and also at my own.
> 
> What's that? Connverse hurt/comfort with a side of corruption scars? Oh, I'm on the case.

The shower is nice. After everything, he at least has _this;_ warm water rushing down his back and soaking the thick curls of his hair. It feels tender, somehow, more so than usual, in a way he can’t quite articulate and isn’t going to. He sighs, leaning back with his head against the tile, staring at the showerhead.

He doesn’t think about how just less than twenty-four hours ago, he was in this room, bathing Jasper in something other than water.

He doesn’t think about how his skin tugs in ways it didn’t before, how the water scrapes against wounds he didn’t have twenty-four hours ago. He washes the insides of his arms, his elbows, his hands, and then back up again in reverse. 

He doesn’t look at his chest. He doesn’t look at any of the aches and pains and discoloration, just bites his tongue and pushes past it.

He doesn’t think about how, less than twenty-four hours ago, thorns burst from his skin like from a rose bush, like they’d been there the whole time, lying in wait for their chance to emerge. He doesn’t think about how he doesn’t remember anything in the in-between, doesn’t remember how he felt them sprout from seeds he’d sown long ago and had been screeching in pain and then there had been nothingness, and then there had been the scars.

He doesn’t think.

And isn’t that awful, that he’s so messed up he can’t even ~~look at himself?~~

“It’s fine.” He takes a deep breath, slowly cranking the knob. The water slows to a trickle, and then to a complete stop. “It’s fine, Steven. Now you just have to dress.”

He stares out over the bathroom. He doesn’t look at the mirror. He stares at the clothes that Pearl must have set on the closed lid of the toilet, and tries to make himself move.

Without the water drowning out the sound, he can hear them. He can hear everyone just outside the door. Or maybe they’re not — maybe that’s his own head? It wouldn’t be the first time. But no one’s left, he’s pretty sure, not even the Diamonds. He ruined the house and everyone’s still in here, pretending it’s fine, pretending there isn’t a giant hole over their heads, going about cooking like normal, like this is all just some fun little cookout or barbecue or normal get together, haha, despite the fact that none of them actually need to eat.

Like this isn’t just some sort of… we’re all here to be here for Steven, because he messed up again and it was real bad this time, type of sad little party. A funeral for Steven’s ~~mistakes~~.

He bites his own tongue. Enough of it. Enough! He’s tired of feeling like this. He’s tired of being unable to get out of his own head, of talking himself down. He’s got so much work to do. Not _work_ work — he doesn’t have a job right now, after all. But he’s got to do work to make up for the mistakes he’s made.

Maybe he can… start with the house. Yeah. He’ll get dressed, and go outside and talk to Bismuth about how he can help. Yeah. It isn’t much, but it’s a start.

He nods to himself. He swallows, and slowly steps outside of the shower. His feet touch the soft, spongy texture of the bathmat, and he hopes that this doesn’t mean the end. He hopes he hasn’t reached the end of some kind of journey and now he has no more room to grow.

No, that’s silly. Stop thinking that.

He reaches for the towel he left on the edge of the sink. As he wraps it around his shoulders, he ignores the tug around his movements, he ignores the way some stretches of his skin feel ~~different~~ against the soft towel than others. As he wraps it around his shoulders, he turns toward the mirror and freezes.

There, near the center of his chest. He swallows as he stares at it. No. No, that isn’t there. Directly over his heart, in what is almost an upside-down heart shape, lies a purplish pink ~~mottling~~. It’s the only discoloration on his entire body that is the specific telltale sign of ~~corruption~~ that so many of the gems recognize.

Spinel would probably get a riot out of it.

He reaches out, touches the mirror. The towel drops behind him.

He takes a deep breath. Blood rushes in his ears, his heartbeat pounding. 

He can’t close his eyes. 

“It’s fine,” he whispers. His hand covers the scar in the mirror and then he sees it — along the backside of his arm, scars like rips in his skin that his tears must have healed as soon as his corruption was healed, too. Like someone took a knife and dug so deep into his tendons they reached bone.

~~It hasn’t been long enough. They’ll look at him and remember. They’ll look at him and see only the monster that he was.~~

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s _fine.”_

A mantra, over and over, as he slowly dries and dresses. It takes far too long to slip into his pants. It takes far, far too long to grab onto his shirt.

He stares at it. He doesn’t stare at the ~~scars~~ that follow his arms. He doesn’t look at them. He doesn’t see anything but he feels the texture of the shirt, cloth, soft, and he knows he needs to put it on.

Come on, Steven. Put it on.

He blinks, nausea rising. What time is it? How long has he been in here? How…

“Steven!” Amethyst calls his name and he yelps without meaning to. “Hey, bud, are you okay?”

“N-no!” 

Pain darts through him and he covers his mouth with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. There shouldn’t be pain, there _shouldn’t be._ He knows without looking that his wounds are healed, that they could hardly even have been called _wounds_ with how short a time they were open. But he still _feels_ it; he still feels the spikes protruding from his skin, tearing into him — he feels liquid dripping down his arms like blood—

“Can we come in?!” Amethyst again, and the _‘we’_ terrifies him. He shakes his head, and he shakes his head, and he doesn’t think that he can talk.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s _fine.”_ A failing mantra.

How can they even ask this of him? How can they even be banging on the door, demanding entrance, after all he’s done? After how badly he hurt them — slamming Alexandrite into the cliffside, charging after Bismuth and Peridot, roaring and knocking everyone down and out when they were only trying to _protect_ him — he’s done nothing but hurt them and he can’t even _remember_ any of it. He bites back a laugh. He only knows what they’ve told him and he only knows that his own sorry state caused him to lash out at them and hurt them in ways he’s never hurt them before, and—

“Steven.”

This time, accompanied by a knock on the door, he hears Connie’s voice. “Hey, can I come in?”

Remorse. Guilt. Anger. _Pain._ He grimaces as the latter punctuates everything. How long has he been here, like this? Shirtless on the ground and in so much pain he can hardly think but he knows one thing, he knows that Connie—

Connie shouldn’t see ~~him~~ like this. 

_She already has,_ whispers the voice in his head and he —

“Steven.” A second series of knocks, more urgency in her voice. “Steven. I’m _worried._ Please let me in.”

She _sounds_ worried. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the care she’s giving him.

But he can’t say no. Not to Connie.

“It’s open,” he calls before he can regret it. He stays kneeled over, hands on his elbows (shouldn’t — shouldn’t one of the spikes be there?) — and when the door swings open, he hears her gasp and he can’t bear to look at her.

“Steven!” He hears the door shut, then footsteps as she approaches him. The shift of cloth. “Steven, what’s wrong? You have to talk to me. No more shutting it all in.”

He swallows around the stone of guilt lodged in his throat and forces his eyes open. What is she — can’t she see? But — no, there’s nothing. He pulls his hands away from his arms and stares at them and sees there’s no blood. His eyes follow up to his elbows and sees no spikes, either, just —

Just scars.

“Steven!” Then she’s got her hands wrapped around his and he jolts. He looks up to meet her eyes and quickly averts them, feeling rather — _undeserving_ of all the love and care he can see in that gaze.

Not after he’s hurt everyone like _this_ . Not when he’s bearing marks of his sins on his body that he’ll never be free of. Not when they’re all sitting on the other side of that door, clearly out of their minds worried about him _even after_ all the damage he’s done.

“S-sorry, I…” He swallows around the lump in his throat, feeling tears welling in his eyes as he desperately tries to hold them back. “Y-you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be looking at me right now.”

Connie frowns. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“I… my…”

He can’t word it. There is a moment of silence and then Connie pulls his hand up and presses a gentle kiss to it. His eyes are back on her again, only to find her watching him. 

He tugs them away. “P-please don’t touch me right now.”

If she does, he thinks he’s going to spiral. Spiral more? Spiral again? He would laugh at the absurdity of all of it, except that last time he tried to deny all of this was earlier today, and he’d transformed into that horrible manifestation of everything wrong with him.

And he’d never be rid of those ~~memories~~. Not with these ~~scars~~.

She stays where she is next to him. She folds her hands in her lap, and Steven stares at them. Her hands are unblemished, unscathed. Untouched.

Would he ruin them? Is he contagious? (A little voice in his head, suspiciously much like Connie’s, insists he’s being melodramatic. Mental illness isn’t contagious. But what if corruption is?)

“Tell me what’s going on.”

He knows he’s going to regret this; he’s going to feel like a burden, he’s going to feel like her words of reassurance are empty, he’s going to feel like he’s hurting her by opening up. And none of it is going to be her fault.

“I know I’m not a monster,” he begins, to clip any sort of that nonsense in the bud. He doesn’t want to hear her say he isn’t, because he’ll trick himself into believing she doesn’t mean it. “But I — I see these scars, Connie, and I… I’m never going to be the same because of this. I’m never going to be the good person I was.”

“Because of your scars?”

He winces. Connie does this — she’ll ask him for clarification on what he’s saying, because he isn’t being clear and concise enough. And she does it for both their sakes, but he still hates it sometimes. Like now. “No, I mean — because of — what _gave me_ those scars.” The corruption. “Every time I see myself now, I’m going to see how horribly I failed.”

She doesn’t say anything. He can’t bring himself to look at her and see how horribly he’s failed _her,_ right now. All that talk about how much he loves himself… and now look how far he’s fallen. Unable to even look himself in the eye.

“Steven.” She calls his name, but he still can’t bear to make eye contact with the love of his life. “I know you might hate them, but I… I can’t help but look at them and _love_ them.”

That gets his gaze to whip up, startled. _“What?”_

“Don’t you see?” There’s something soft in Connie’s eyes, endearing, adoring. He can’t understand it. “These scars are proof of everything you’ve been through. They’re proof of how far you’ve come, of everything that you’ve endured, and _survived._ Your scars are _part_ of you, they’re inseparable _from_ you, and that’s okay. You’re beautiful, Steven, _with_ your scars, and not despite them.”

His eyes water. She glances down at his hands, her own fisted in her lap, and he knows that she wants to hold his hands again. He thinks of all of the possible counterarguments he could make. How the fact his scars are inseparable from him is really just saying he and his mistakes are one and the same. How he can’t possibly believe she finds these scars _beautiful._ How maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have needed to endure _anything_ like this in the first place.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers instead.

“Can I touch you?”

She asks it with a sense of urgency and a sense like she’s treating him delicately. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Y-yeah.”

She shifts, then, onto her feet; his confusion continues until he feels the palms of her hand on his back, at his shoulders, and he tenses. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I know it isn’t easy.”

He laughs, short. “No kidding.” Tense. 

Then her hands travel down to his shoulder blades, centering inward where he feels her touch differently. He feels her travel from soft, clear skies to harsh, craggy landscapes, and he swallows.

He hadn’t expected to feel someone else touch them.

Then there’s a shift of movement behind him, her hands angling so they sit with fingertips pressed along the outline of his scars. And then he feels her lips against them — and he gasps, turning half-around (he isn’t sure why — what’s he going to do, stop her?) until he catches himself.

Connie stays put, exactly where she is, and he feels his eyes watering. “Connie—”

“Take a deep breath, Steven.” She smiles and presses another, gentle kiss to his other scar.

The tears start sliding down his cheeks. “Connie, I…”

“Relax.” 

It’s so easy to say and not at all easy for him to do. He hiccups and tries desperately not to move as she continues down his back, kissing scar after scar. Then she comes back up, and she takes his left hand in her same hand, and she threads her fingers through his before she pulls his arm back in order to leave a trail of kisses up from his wrist to his shoulder, taking care to hit each mark as she reaches it.

_“I don’t have your healing powers, but.”_

What is this, then? Steven wonders as his tear ducts overflow. What is this if not healing? What are these kisses if not rejuvenating, if not empowering, if not _salvation_ by a different name, in an action rather than a word or a state of being?

She’s come around to his front. She sits in front of him, half on his lap and half off of it. Her arms come up and she presses her hands against his shoulders again.

“Connie, you don’t—”

She presses another kiss to the corruption mark over his heart. He hiccups and he doesn’t know what to say. The depth of his gratitude is a well, reaching endlessly beneath the earth to a plentiful aquifer and he cannot begin to articulate its meaning. Then she leans up in order to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Steven.” She begins very carefully as she takes his hands in hers again, enfolding them in her own as if his hands aren’t bigger than hers. “This isn’t about how much you deserve anything. Though for the record, you deserve so much more. This is about how much I love you, and how much you should be loving yourself _with_ these scars. When you see them, I want you to think not of how much you hate them, but of how much I love them. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He finds himself smiling, not at his scars, but at the idea of somehow being worthy of love with them. He looks down at the scars along the back of his arm, turns his head at an angle to find the scar over his heart.

_Think of how much Connie loves them._

“I… I’ll try.” It’s a terrifying promise, to look at these scars and see not marks of his own failure, but of someone else’s love. He looks up at her now, meeting her eyes. “I don’t know, Connie. What if it’s hard?”

“If it’s hard…” She smiles and squeezes his hand. “I’ll be here for you. No matter how hard it gets. So no matter what, I’ll be able to give your scars as many kisses as they deserve, and I’ll be here to remind you just how much I love them. And maybe, someday, you can learn to love how much I love them.”

He looks down at their entwined hands, and then up to meet her eyes again. “I… okay.”

Someday. That’s a promise he can make to himself.

“Now let’s get up.” She presses another kiss to his forehead. “And let’s get you dressed. Okay?”

He smiles as he looks up at her. “Yeah. Okay.”

It doesn’t hurt nearly as much this time, to slip his shirt on. She helps straighten out his clothing, and he bites back a laugh. “How long have I been in here?”

“A while.” When she looks at him this time, there’s a hard look in her eyes. “At least half an hour before I came in. You… kind of scared everyone a lot. We all care about you, y’know.”

There’s suddenly a lump in his throat. “I know.” More than anything, he knows so deeply how much each of them care for him, and he knows that it’s probably the one thing he can’t help.

She wraps her arms around him, engulfing him in one last hug. He inhales the smell of lavender one last time before she pulls away, squeezing his hand. “Well, let’s go out there together.”

Steven nods. He puts his hand on the doorknob and takes one final deep breath.

He’s caused them all an awful lot of worry, an awful lot of pain. An awful lot of hurt. And that was before he had a meltdown in the bathroom. But… he can’t stay in here forever.

With that in mind, he pushes open the door.

He’s surprised to be tackled immediately by Amethyst. He hits the ground with an _“oof!”_ as she holds his face between her hands, yelling something about how worried she was and her eyes are watering. He blinks up from her, watching as Garnet and Pearl step forward, as well. Even Greg comes to his side, to set his hand in Steven’s hair as Garnet and Pearl kneel beside him, and he wonders how in the world he’s going to say anything at all to any of them.

That doesn’t even bring into account everyone else. Everyone else who was present to witness him become that monstrous creature of his own design… they’re all lingering here, in the background, past the edges of his vision. He notices Bismuth grab Lapis and Peridot and turn them around to head down to the beach.

Who’s watching the stove?

Then Pearl says, “Are you all right?” 

And there’s so many things he wants to say. No, he isn’t. Clearly, he’s got some stuff to work through. He’s going to have to learn to think of what just happened a few hours ago as something _other_ than hurting everyone else; really, it was a symptom of how he’s been hurting himself, a projection of his own internal thoughts. But he also… _is_ . He’s better than he’s been before _because_ he can recognize now that the way he’s been thinking about all of this hasn’t actually been helping him at all.

“I’m going to be,” he says at last, which earns him yet another tight squeeze from Amethyst. With a small, relieved sigh, he wraps his arms around her and hugs her back.

He glances to Connie, who gives him a soft, subtle nod.

Yeah. He’s going to be.

* * *

“Are you sure about this?”

Steven stares up at the building in front of them. Even though they stand just outside the grand doors, he finds himself staring up at the therapist’s office with a certain amount of dread. Connie watches him with a worried look.

“No,” he finally says with a laugh. “No, I’m really, really not.”

She takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. He turns to her and hopes she can’t see the fear in his eyes. “That’s okay.” She offers him a smile. “It’s _totally_ okay, Steven. Therapy is kind of scary. But remember, I’ll be in the waiting room the entire time, and I won’t be going anywhere. So even if it sucks and you have to get up and walk out, I’ll be there.”

He lets out a slow, unsteady exhale. “I appreciate that.” Really, it’s moments like these that that horrible thought comes in — the one about ~~_deservation_~~ — and he tries, as always, to shove that aside. Not to bury it, because he doesn’t want it to explode again, but at least to not acknowledge it and give it voice. “I don’t know. What am I even going to say?”

Connie shrugs. “I don’t know the answer to that. But it’s okay that you don’t, either. You probably won’t until you’re in the room and it’s coming out of your mouth.”

He laughs nervously. He wonders if she knows that is far from reassuring.

“You’ll be okay.” Connie squeezes his hand one more time, and his heart skips a beat in his chest. “It’ll be just like talking to me, only with someone who’s professionally trained and will know just what to say.”

 _“You_ always seem to know what to say.”

Connie laughs. “Oh, stop it. That’s nonsense.”

“No, it’s true!”

“No, it isn’t.” Connie sighs. “I know it may seem like that, Steven, but even though I will _always_ be here for you… the truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I _can_ do beyond offer support. But the person you’re about to see is going to be able to help you build coping mechanisms and teach you how you can fight through your inner monsters on your own. The most I can do is cheer you on from the sidelines.”

It’s an odd metaphor, Steven thinks as he imagines Connie in a cheerleader’s uniform. She’d be cute in it, of course, but it doesn’t suit her. He’s always thought of her as someone fighting _with_ him, cutting through all of it with her own sword of wisdom and insight.

Then again, maybe she doesn’t want to be thought of in that way. Maybe it’s better for her to remain on the “sidelines” here, and to let him take charge. But…

“Even still.” He smiles and squeezes her hand again. “There’s no one I’d rather have on my side through all of this.”

That’s enough to get Connie to blush. It’s adorable; her blushes aren’t as visible on her dark skin as Steven’s are on his, but there’s a telltale way her eyebrows bunch, her smile pushing up towards her cheeks as if she’s fighting it, the darkness in her cheeks highlighted in her eyes. “W-well, there’s no one else’s side I’d rather be at.”

And really, that’s all he would ever need to hear. Just to know that Connie will be by his side no matter what — well, he already knows it. She’s shown him time and time again that she isn’t going anywhere. But he also knows that hearing it said, as if a promise is born again, a vow renewed… It makes all of it worth it all over again.

And with that in mind, Steven opens the door.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you couldn't tell I had some fun with the strikethrough, LOL. And the door opening imagery. Anyway. Hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> EDIT: Someone made fanart for this fic, please go check them out, give them a like + reblog over on ye olde tumblr! Click [[here]](https://su-emo-steven.tumblr.com/post/615811389520592896/fanart-of-moominquartzs-recent-writing-from) ♡


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